Snow Remembering December

First, there was the fall.
I was floating at the base of a maple. It was cold. Through the sky’s slow blinking, the leaves changed, shriveled, dove. The puddle rippled as they landed, sent small waves to the forest shore. Gaps revealed a wide, grey tent propped up by tree limbs.

Then, there was the fall.
I was floating on a current over some town, small buildings hastily decorated with a single strand of multicolored lights. I saw people walking around with overstuffed bags. Small steam clouds came out of their mouths, trying desperately to return home. I saw them rise, slowly, wistfully, taking the scenic route here and there, as I felt a chill run up my spine. My limbs stiffened, and I started my slow, swirling descent.

Last, there was the fall.
I was lying on the slope of a hill by a building. There was a hemlock there, sleds propped up on its trunk. The sun peeked out from a tear in the canvas, and I felt warm. I felt my arms loosen, my legs stretch. I rested my back on a blade of grass and looked up into the hemlock’s branches; its small needles trying to stitch the sky. The grass bent under my weight and sent me sliding to the soft earth. Curled up, I pulled the covers over my head and slept.

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